"Never Give Up" Is Not Always a Wise Adage (Or, My Fights, Round 2)

Actually, there
isshame in losing

If you remember, or even care, I'd mentioned that I'd been in a few major fights (note: "few" = "three"), one of which I'd already blogged about.

That scrum took place in sixth grade, and it contained only one punch, resulting in (my) bloody nose and the fight being halted by the freaked-out guy who landed it.

My next big brawl took place three years later. The changes between sixth grade and ninth grade include a few inches and a number of pounds, but that didn't help me because the guy I was fighting was not a sixth-grader himself, but a larger-than-average tenth grader.

Add to this the fact that I really had no motivation to fight this guy, and what we end up with is one of those Worst Day Of My Life days.

All right, then! Let's get to it!

IT STARTS ON THE BUS

Purgatory on wheels.

The school bus is a Petri dish of pent-up frustration, restless energy, and bullying, so it's amazing I don't have many more tales of slugfests originating there. But in this one instance I got into a confrontation with some kid, I'll call him Matt, on the way home from school.

Matt was in my brother's grade, a year ahead of me. For years I had been abused or tortured or picked on by just about every male member of my brother's class, not to mention a few of the ladies, so the scuffle wasn't much of a surprise.

I can't remember why we started wrestling — or, as Dad calls it, "wrasslin'" — but somehow I got some leverage by standing on a seat and was able to put the guy in a headlock that he had trouble escaping. By the time we were separated, it appeared that I scored a point on this fellow, despite his outweighing me by some 50 pounds.

KNOW WHEN TO WALK AWAY...
I was savoring my mild triumph at home when there was a knock at the door. This guy Ken, who was in my grade but with whom I don't think I'd ever shared any classes (kind of like Chuck and Tony from the Park & Ride Story) was there to tell me that Matt was talking smack about me to his crew, which lived in another part of my neighborhood. (Matt lived in yet a different part of the neighborhood, but all of us rode the same bus.)

I was feeling very confident based on the earlier battle, so I was all like, "Let's go over there and finish it!" Ken's ride was this comical minibike that was apparently legal to ride on the street and in the circus, so I hopped on the back for the two-minute ride to the front lawn where Matt was holding court.

He didn't seem surprised to see me, and I got off the bike saying something like, "You talking about me?" And he was all "Fuck you," so it was on.

...KNOW WHEN TO RUN

What he felt like on my back.

Here's why I probably wouldn't be a good professional boxer: I need to be angry to fight, and though I might possibly have an anger management problem, my anger doesn't manifest itself in punching. Plus, it's hard for me to actually summon my rage; it has to occur organically. Even Bruce Banner couldn't just turn into The Hulk when he needed to hop onto his roof in a single bound in order to clean his gutters. Not the Bruce Bixby version of Bruce Banner, at any rate.

So, I really wasn't up for fighting, but I let myself get convinced by Ken that I had to defend my honor or something. I didn't even prepare myself to throw punches; I was doing more of the grappling stuff that worked so well in the cramped spaces on the bus, where Matt could be pinned like Jabba the Hutt as he was strangled by pre-drug-bloated Carrie Fisher.

You cannot find any leverage on a wide-open front lawn.

As I know now from playing videogames with realistic fighting simulations like Grand Theft Auto and Bully, when you fight a larger fellow, you're supposed to keep away from his body and use your speed to hit and run. Instead...

FAILURE TASTES LIKE A WELL-MANICURED LAWN
I was suddenly on the ground, on my stomach. Matt's mountainous body was on top of mine. I knew there was no way I'd be able to get him off.

At first, I said very quietly to him, "This is cool, let's make it look real!" like Ha ha, people think we are really fighting and we know we're really not, so please don't hit me!

Matt either ignored or didn't understand what I was trying to do. He asked me if I wanted to give up.

KNOW WHEN TO FOLD 'EM

You suck.

At this point, I needed to heed the advice of Kenny Rogers, but instead I listed to Winston Churchill and refused to give up. And by "refusing to give up," I mean replying like this:

"No way, you fat fuck!"

It wouldn't surprise you that that's probably one of the worst things you could say if you were in that position. I then felt a rapid series of point-blank punches to the part of my face that wasn't pressed against the grass. They hurt.

He asked again if I were interested in conceding this battle, and I replied in the same fashion. Bam-bam-bam, fist into face.

Finally, the fight was broken up by a much older guy, a guy who I think eventually became my mechanic for several years, though I never asked him at the garage if he was the guy. I skulked over to Ken's bike, and he drove me home. I don't think I ever spoke to Ken again.

GOOD THING WE WEREN'T VEGETARIANS

Somebody's collagen took a beating.

I knew I was going to be in trouble, because even while on the bike I could feel my face puffing up like the current iteration of Kenny Rogers' face. When I walked in the door, my mother was ready to call the cops, but I told her quite calmly that the fight was my fault and I deserved the beating.

She covered my face with a some kind of steak, a move I thought only happened on The Flintstones, and I actually phoned Matt and though I didn't apologize, I explained what I'd received I'd certainly had coming to me, and he shouldn't expect any reprisals. I don't think he was ever worried.

TO BE CONTINUED
What kept me from looking like a complete loser was the fact that, based on the tale of the tape in terms of age and weight, the outcome was exactly as anyone would have expected. Plus, the shiner did make me look a little badass.

And I learned my lesson about accepting fights only under the right circumstances. Those circumstances would arrive the following year...but that's for another post.

Until then, enjoy the only thing that must embarrass Kenny Rogers more than whatever he's been doing to his face for the last 30 years: